


of under me you so quite new

by goodnightpuckbunny



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dreams, First Time, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 05:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightpuckbunny/pseuds/goodnightpuckbunny
Summary: There are dreams, and Sidney thinks he might be lonely.





	of under me you so quite new

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this for months. It's time to let it go.
> 
> Ambiguous timeline, but I wrote it during the 2016-2017 season. Ambiguous ending, but I'd like to think everything goes well and everyone is happy. Whatever floats your boat.
> 
> ***WORK OF FICTION***

_i like my body when it is with your_  
_body. It is so quite new a thing._  
_Muscles better and nerves more._  
_i like your body.  i like what it does,_  
_i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine_  
_of your body and its bones,and the trembling_  
_-firm-smooth ness and which i will_  
_again and again and again_  
_kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,_  
_i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz_  
_of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes_  
_over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,_  
  
_and possibly i like the thrill_  
  
_of under me you so quite new_

\-- e. e. cummings

\-----

Lately, Sidney has been having dreams and they’ve been messing with his hockey.

They start off like a good many of his dreams. The Penguins are playing hockey, and Sidney is on the ice. In the dream, he’s frenzied like they’re in overtime trying to wedge their way into the playoffs and this is the last chance. The puck slides down into the offensive zone corner. Sidney chases after it, sensing someone on his tail, but he knows he’ll get to it first and will try to flip it out to whoever is open. In dreams about hockey, he flies. There’s no burn in his legs or in his lungs. He doesn’t feel the ache of bruises old and new, or the tug of his equipment, and his back doesn’t bother him. He’s weightless. His heart beats like a bird’s wing.

He gets to the puck and braces himself for the check with his edges dug into the ice. He looks up, expecting to see the jubilant blurred faces of the crowd, but that’s not what he sees. The check doesn’t come. His breath is knocked out of him anyways.

He’s alone on the ice now. In all these dreams, Geno is on the other side of the glass. Sometimes he’s alone and he’s watching with his arms crossed. Or he’ll be yelling and banging on the glass. In some dreams, there’s someone else with him—usually featureless but sometimes reflecting the countenance of Geno’s past flings. Those are the worst ones. Sidney is frozen to the spot. His skates won’t move; he can’t turn away. The lights on the arena bounce off the ice and glint off the gold chain around Geno’s neck, but his eyes are cloudy with disinterest.

That’s usually when Sidney wakes up, sweating and alone in his bed—either at home or on the road, it doesn’t matter. He has the dream often enough that it’s something of a problem. As soon as he thinks he’s moved on, his dream-self is skating into the corner for that puck again. It’s starting to colour his world.

Sidney has plenty of dreams about hockey. He spends most of his life either on the ice or thinking about when he can get back onto it. And though he wouldn’t necessarily admit it to anyone, he has a lot of dreams about his teammates, too. Not just hockey-related. Sidney has had plenty of dreams about sex, and sex in the context of teammates, though a little less frequently the closer he gets to thirty. After those, he wakes up hard and deals with his erection in the shower, guiltily re-living the highlights.

But from this dream in particular, he just wakes up feeling miserable. He can barely look at Geno. He doesn’t know what to do about it.

It’d be better if it was some kind of feverish sex dream.

He thinks maybe he’s just lonely and it’s having some weird effects on his dream life. Even the younger guys on the team are in serious relationships, and Sidney can’t invite the baby Pens over for barbeques that often. He schedules more meetings with the coaching staff to go over plays and special teams, but it gets frustrating not to be able to bring them directly to fruition. His lunchtime hangouts with the guys don’t help with how empty his house feels at the end of the day. So he texts around to find some late night company. He gets an electric blanket. He considers and reconsiders if he could fit a pet into his life and buys a manual on dog breeds to leaf through on plane rides.

It helps until he remembers that he’d need a dogsitter in his house all the time. It helps until the heated blankets make him sweat through the night. It helps until he sends girls home in the morning. He feels grey and distracted and itchy through practice, and after putting new sheets on his bed and going to sleep early and alone, that damn dream is winding its grey smoke through his mind again.

It’s messing with his hockey because he can’t focus on anything but how unsettled he feels. He’s helpless to fix it. His passes aren’t connecting, his shots aren’t landing where he wants them to, and it’s no fun when he’s losing.

\-----

In the locker room between periods, when the Penguins are down by more than they should be and nothing is clicking, Sidney watches Geno for answers.

Geno is sweating, and with his helmet off his dark curls stick to his forehead. His jersey and his pads are off and his expression is serious. No doubt that he’s running through every moment of the game and every aspect of their opponent’s defense and ignoring everything that Coach is saying to come up with his own plan of attack. He’s only just back after an injury, but his line is working in a way that Sidney’s isn’t. He looks healthy and confident, if a little chagrined from how many bad bounces he got in the last twenty, and he seems eager to be back on the ice.

All those things are just _Geno_ , though. His commitment to the game has always been dazzling. All that aside, Sidney can’t help but stare at Geno’s long legs; at the width of his shoulders beneath his shirt; at his lips, chapped from the pace of the game.

“Something on my face?” Geno asks him before they head back onto the ice, and Sidney has to blush at that. He hadn’t meant to be obvious. He’d hoped that it could just be brushed off as his usual weirdness.

“Score a goal already,” Sidney says instead of making a bigger fool of himself, and smacks Geno’s shin pads with his stick.

They win in the end. Geno scores and Sid scores, but it’s still an ugly fight. They’re not in Pittsburgh but some of the guys still want to go out to blow off steam. The usual trade deadline scramble for more defense and the desperation from teams for a playoff spot is getting everyone a little jittery. Sidney doesn’t want to go out, and begs off. He’s happy for the win. He doesn’t feel like celebrating. No one bugs him about it.

Instead he goes back to his hotel room. Sidney hangs up his suit, and brushes his teeth, and puts on loose sweats. He turns the TV on to a late-night talk show, but he isn’t interested in any of the guests so he just lets the noise of the host’s babble fill the spaces of the room.

He tries not to think about the dream and if it’ll plague him tonight. Instead he thinks about Geno.

Geno isn’t really a close friend because all they have in common is hockey. And yet Geno has been a part of Sidney’s life for so long that it’s impossible to imagine an existence without him there. He’s meant to be with Sidney, quietly playing phenomenal hockey and supporting the Penguins through every breathless victory and every dismal failure. He’s meant to be _with_ Sidney because they’re a pair, whether things are easy or not. Everything else can change, but they’ll retire together. Geno’s successes are Sidney’s.

What Sidney is _really_ imagining is Geno’s long fingers curling around Sidney’s hip and squeezing the muscle there. He’s imagining Geno’s mouth on his neck while he brushes his fingers along his thighs under his sweats. He’s imagining the _sounds_ they could make together as he flexes his toes against the hotel bedspread just to feel that stretch.

Would he hold Sidney down or would Geno shudder against him? Would he be over-confident or sweetly nervous? Would he--

There’s a knock at the door. Sidney jerks his hands out of his pants. He’s halfway to hard, but he gets up and answers.

Geno is on the other side of the door, as if Sidney’s half-formed fantasies had beckoned him. He looks at Sidney’s sweatpants, his bare feet, and seems a little sheepish as he holds up a plastic bag labeled with a Chinese food chain’s logo. “Think you’re being lonely, maybe need some company,” he says, “I guess I’m right.”

Sidney steps back from the door so Geno can step inside. “Sure, sure, okay.” Geno comes so rarely to hang out with Sidney, even on road trips. It’s not an opportunity to pass up.

Geno toes off his shoes in the entryway and then drops the bags on the table next to the TV. He gets rid of his layers—his dark coat and his jacket and the vest he’s taken to wearing with his suits that makes him look so handsome. He drops them over the back of a chair instead of asking for a hanger.

The Chinese food turns out to be more of a snack than a meal. Geno brought brown rice and steamed vegetables and a little container of potstickers. He knows that Sidney doesn’t really like to go crazy on food after a game until he can have a big breakfast after an early workout the next day, but they have to fly out in the morning and it’s probably good to get something in him now.

“Why you’re always watch shit on TV?” Geno grumbles, as they lounge across the bed to eat.

“Me?” Sidney asks, indignantly. “You watch worse shit than anyone I know.”

“My shows supposed to be bad. Yours try to be good, but suck.” He sticks his fork in his mouth to make a grab for the remote. It’s late, so there isn’t much to see, but MTV has music videos. The both like Top 40’s.

They don’t talk much beyond some mild familiar chirping, and between the two of them passing containers back and forth, it doesn’t take long to put it all away.

Geno reads his fortune carefully and slowly as Sidney munches through the cookie which Geno has less interest in. “ _'R_ _omance comes into your life this year in a very unusual sort of way.’_ Ha,” Geno grins at him and Sidney tries very hard to keep relaxed. “Think it know something I don’t?”

“ _'If winter comes,’_ ” Sidney reads from his own slip of paper, “ _'c_ _an spring be far behind?’_ ”

“Cookies maybe not so good at telling future,” Geno guesses.

“I don’t know. In 2009 I got one that said I was going to win a big prize.” He’d been appalled at the time, convinced that such a message would surely be bad luck. He’d burned the little slip of paper and then swept the ashes into the sink. It had all worked out, though.

Geno groans and rolls his eyes. “Don’t take advice from fortune cookie. That one just lucky.”

Sidney smiles. Then Geno kisses him.

He jerks back so quickly that his brain is left reeling, trying to categorize the sensations with almost no solid information. “ _Geno_ ,” Sidney says, hoping the _what the fuck_ is evident in his tone.

“Kiss me,” Geno says instead, and Sidney’s fantasies had never started like this.

Kiss him? Sidney wants to. _God_ , he wants to.

But he knows many reasons why it’s an enormously bad idea. He could probably come up with a lot more if he wanted to put himself through a round of self-loathing. So instead he asks, half afraid and half hopeful: “Why?”

Geno shrugs, “Want you to. Please? I’m hot for it.”

Sidney’s gut swoops and his skin tingles with an anticipation that’s not unlike the fear he gets before an important game. It’s a shit reason to be kissed, but nonetheless it sparks the yearning inside him. “You mean you’re horny? There’s other ways than—“

“No,” Geno says, with an edge of impatience, “I’m _hot_. Sid. You make me burn.”

And Sidney doesn’t know what to say to that. This is so off-script for them that he might as well be dreaming again. The corners of his eyes prickle. He has to look away from the honesty in Geno’s gaze.

“We can’t—“ He murmurs to the corner of the room, and swallows. “Please, G, I’m…” The answers all die on his tongue, fumble out of his mouth and clatter uselessly between them. He wants. He shouldn’t.

He’d always thought that if Geno asked, he would. That it’d be simple, despite all the lists and lists of ramifications. They could keep it simple, or maybe make it more, but he’d only have to say yes. It was something they could do for each other. And now it seems like an insurmountable task. In some ways, Sidney has grown up over the years and moved on. In a lot of other ways, he’s still the same kid who would feel like ice and stone every time Geno had his arms around a pretty girl.

Maybe he’s jealous, when it comes to Geno and his attention; his affection. It’s all right there for the taking. He wants to be selfish. He can’t make that step.

Geno patiently puts their empty food containers onto the floor while Sidney has his crisis. He raises the volume on the late night hip hop music, and for a second Sidney thinks he might have missed his window of opportunity. They’ll pretend this never happened like so many other meaningful glances.

Then Geno turns on the bed, and moves up over Sidney with his knees bracketing Sidney’s hips. He cradles Sidney’s face in his big hands and scratches his thumb against the grain of the stubble that remains as evidence of an unlikely goal streak. His gaze consumes Sidney’s quiver of indecision.

Sidney lets Geno kiss him again, and this time he feels it. He feels the little gasp of humidity between them, even though they’ve both stopped breathing. He feels Geno’s lips—chapped but plush—and the brush of their noses side-by-side.

Geno pulls back and looks right down into Sidney’s soul like he can do when they’re down one point with a minute left in regulation. He kisses Sidney again, and this time he can taste salt and lingering copper.

Then when Geno kisses again, Sidney finally kisses back.

It’s not the best kiss he’s had as far as skill goes. Geno’s lips are too slick and Sidney keeps moving when Geno stays still; both of them try to press tongues into mouths when the other isn’t ready. But he thinks they’ve both lost track of technique because this is the most alive Sidney’s felt off the ice in ages. It doesn’t matter that the kissing is inexpert because it reminds him he’s awake. Yet he’s grateful for Geno’s long body buoying him down to the mattress, because otherwise he’d be adrift.

Geno breaks the kiss and moves one of his hands to rub Sidney’s dick through his sweatpants. He’s oversensitive and the fabric scratches a little too much. Sidney hisses his discomfort and Geno eases the pressure. It’s like he’s on a cliff and the wind is rushing at him from the sea.

“Think about this so much. Think about your pretty, soft mouth. Your big muscles,” Geno coos, a whisper in Sidney’s ear, swiping his thumb across Sidney’s cheek, “Think about sucking you on bench until you cry.” Sidney squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to come in the wave of sticky-sweet heat that follows those words.

“Geno,” Sidney moans and clutches his arms. “Please.” Please hurry up. Please don’t stop.

“It’s okay. I’m take care of you.” Geno slides beneath Sidney’s waistband and takes his cock in hand. He’s kind there, even while his lips are teasing their own path. He licks and kisses at Sidney’s neck, and nuzzles his face along the shining wet trails. Sidney wishes he would bite and suck instead because the light touch is almost agonizing in itself. He almost begs for it, and fuck the consequences.  Geno’s pace on his cock is steady and tight, slick with precum. “Already so wet for me. Hard.” Sidney’s body feels molten. It’s not going to take long at all.

He tells Geno as much.

“Just come, Sid,” Geno says, twisting his grip. “No need to wait.”

Sidney pants against the side of Geno’s head, ruffling his hair. He tugs Geno’s shirt free of his dress pants and moves his hands up underneath. The slide of Geno’s hand on his dick feels so good, but he doesn’t want to get there alone.

“Take this off,” Sidney says, rucking Geno’s shirt up until it gets stuck.

Geno sits back with a huff and tugs his shirt back into place to unbutton it. “Fussy,” he murmurs, but Sidney ignores him in favor of struggling out of his own clothes without getting up. His t-shirt ends up squished against his head. Geno unhooks Sidney’s sweats from his ankles as he stands to unbuckle his belt and take his pants off. They get shucked over to the chair in the corner of the room with Geno’s underwear.

Sidney reaches for Geno, impatient now, and feels satisfied when Geno lays on top of him with his forearms by the headboard and his strong thighs brushing  the outside of Sidney’s. He runs his fingers lightly over Geno’s many bruises, left from his pads and the force of being run into the boards. Geno shivers, and so Sidney puts his hands over the cut of his waist.

He gasps when Geno thrusts his hips down—although the angle isn’t quite right—and Geno tongues the noise out of his mouth.

They lay like that for a while, kissing with little urgency and Geno moving lazily over him, until the need builds again and Sidney turns his head to the side. Geno licks his jaw and bites his earlobe, and rubs his chest and down his stomach with the perfect pressure. “What you need?” He asks.

Sidney makes a noise of discontent. “I don’t know,” he complains, “Everything. Anything.”

Geno’s breath is distracting against his neck, uneven and hot. “Have lube?”

Fuck. “No. Shit, I don’t.”

He doesn’t usually need it for himself on the road. He’s less prone to hotel mattresses and more likely to take care of himself in the shower. The slick of his precum is usually enough, otherwise. There’s never much time for anything complicated on the road.

“Okay,” Geno says, and no it’s not. Now that he’s thinking about his options, Sidney wants Geno inside him.

Sidney hooks his arms around Geno and rolls them over until Geno is on his back. Geno is incredibly handsome underneath him. His hair is soft and ruffled, his face and chest are just slightly flushed, and his lips are parted. In the dim hotel light and the flickering from the TV, skin-to-skin like this, Sidney could probably look at him until the secrets of the universe became plain. He wants to look at Geno until he loves Sidney back.

Instead he shifts down the bed until his mouth is level with Geno’s cock. Geno shifts, so Sidney shoulders underneath his thighs, feeling the long stretch of them settle by his ears.

Geno is hard, and his legs shake when Sidney takes it into his mouth with little ceremony, but the best part is the sound Geno makes—a low moan that breaks into a sigh. Sidney hears him swear when he bobs his head experimentally, judging the depth he can take without wrecking his voice for tomorrow. His aim is to get Geno dripping and sloppy.

Geno’s hand gets into Sidney’s hair, sweeping it up off his forehead again and again when it keeps falling forward. The other hand is clenching into the bedspread as if Geno isn’t sure where to grab. He keeps up a babble of praise and disbelief, and Sidney is gratified. It’s been a long time since he’s done this.

After he’s sure he’s done a sufficient job, Sidney drums the fingers of his left hand against the flat of Geno’s stomach, and Geno cries out and twitches his hips up, thrusting into Sidney’s mouth. Sidney pulls off and Geno gasps, “Sorry, Sid. Sorry, sorry, so rude.” He strokes under Sidney’s jaw.

“Yeah,” Sidney agrees, though not upset, and crawls back up the bed before his spit can cool and dry. He wipes his chin and then palms their cocks together.  Sidney’s head falls forward against Geno’s chest and he pants hotly there while he jerks his hand at a pace that maybe wouldn’t do it in another scenario. It’s just enough this time. He’s keyed up as all hell. “Geno,” he groans.

“What?” He replies, probably trying to sound annoyed but really coming across as just as close as Sidney is.

“Come on.” Suddenly it’s too much. The soft-lit tenderness of the moment is gone and it’s just friction and sweaty heat, now. He flexes his thighs and thrusts through the circle of his fingers. “Come on,” he demands.

Geno moans helplessly. “I’m try.”

“Try harder.”

He doesn’t have much leverage with Sidney holding him himself over like this. He arches, trying to create extra movement.

“Come for me, Geno.”

“Sid.” He thrashes a bit, and Sidney squeezes and twists at the angle he likes, hopes it’s right for Geno, too.

“Fuck,” he says. “I want it. Please.”

Geno comes, finally, splashing hot between them.

“Yes,” Sidney sighs, and strokes until Geno is spent. Then he lets go, only to have Geno push him onto his side. He pulls Sidney’s leg up over his hip wraps his own hand around Sidney’s cock. He keeps a steady, firm pace, but it’s his kiss that brings Sidney off. He sucks on Sidney’s tongue and it’s like his orgasm is tugged from him.

They lay next to each other, basking but apart. Sidney’s knee is still bent around Geno’s middle, and Geno has brought his hand to thumb at the hair on Sidney’s nape. It feels great. His skin is tingling as they cool off. He wants to be on top of Geno again, or maybe caged in by Geno’s long limbs, pressed close and legs tangled. It’d probably be sticky. It’d probably settle his beating heart better than anything.

“Next time, bring lube,” Sidney says, and Geno startles next to him. The sounds of the room filter back into his awareness. The TV is still playing top 40s, and the air conditioner is humming but not blasting. He hears a thump from down the hall and some of the older guys might be back by now from the night out.

“Next time?” Geno asks, cautiousness plain in his voice. His hand stills on Sidney’s neck.

“I swear I can last a lot longer if you fuck me. Bring a condom too, I guess.” He finds he doesn’t care, but he knows it’s safer that way. And tidier.

“You want to do again?”

Sidney doesn’t have to think about it. He wanted to do it again before Geno even knocked on his door. He pretends to contemplate, but his mind has already done the calculations: it’s a really bad idea. “Yes.”

“You seem nervous before,” Geno offers, uncertain.

“I didn’t know. It felt like a dream.”

Geno squeezes his neck, and Sidney finally looks into his eyes. His gaze is open, warm, a little hopeful. Honest. “It’s not a dream. I’m here.”

Sidney can’t help but close the gap between them at that. He slips himself into Geno’s space, one hand on the smooth skin of his back and the other on the join between neck and shoulder, tucked between them. He kisses Geno, and then drifts off. He doesn’t dream.

\-----

He wakes up some time later to shuffling movements in the room. Geno has turned off the TV and is sliding back into his dress pants. Sidney sits up and watches him. There’s rice from their late night snack in the bed, and he feels a little unclean and disoriented. The only light in the room is coming from the single dim bulb by the doorway.

“Geno,” he murmurs into the dark, half worried that whoever is rooming next to him will hear, and half worried that his voice will break the tension in his body that’s keeping him from falling apart, or perhaps flying across the room to drag Geno back into his arms and never let him leave. But they have a flight to catch in a few hours.

His voice catches Geno’s attention, though, and he looks up from his task.

“Kiss me,” Sidney says.

Geno strides across to the bedside and leans into Sidney’s space and does, coat, jacket, and vest in hand. He lingers, and this one is a little different. “Next time,” Geno promises, and slips out of the room.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions? Suggestions? [I'm here for you.](http://goodnightpuckbunny.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
